As she spoke there was a vague sense in Drexel of the contrast between them: she the apex of old-world aristocracy, giving her whole soul to the people; he of the over-night American aristocracy, trampling upon the people, giving his whole soul to winning that which she would so gladly throw away. As she finished, standing before him a-tremble with sympathy and passion, her superb beauty illumined by the inspiration of her purpose, he felt himself fairly lifted to his feet; and thrilled, he stretched out an eager hand to her.
“And I—I will help you!” he cried.
“You help?” Her lips half curled with scorn. “You with such ideals as you expressed the other night!”
“Never mind ideals! I will help!”
Those eyes of blue searched him narrowly.
“If not impelled to help by ideals, then by what?”
He well knew by what; by her spirit, her personality, by his love—but he cried:
“What impels me matters not, so long as I serve well and ask no reward!”
She considered a space, then said slowly: “No, we have no right to refuse any trustworthy aid. And I know that I can trust you; and that you have courage and readiness of wit. But, you have counted the risk?”
“I am ready for the risk!”